


Parallel

by Shirokokuro



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: (Please let Deathwatch Dad become a thing.), /slaps roof of random Deathwatch Member/, 2 plots that don't seem like they go together at first, Angst with a Happy Ending, Deathwatch Dad is best buir, Fix-It, Gen, Good Parent Din Djarin, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Post-Season 2, The Mandalorian (TV) Season 2 Spoilers, This guy can fit so much love and affection for Din Djarin in him.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shirokokuro/pseuds/Shirokokuro
Summary: If time has shown him anything, it’s that the Way is a bridge they’re both on different sides of yet neither are willing to cross.
Relationships: Din Djarin & Deathwatch Dad (AKA his Mandalorian dad), Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda
Comments: 70
Kudos: 210





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Someone on tumblr had mentioned that they were hunting for fics about Din Djarin's Mandalorian dad, and for the life of me, I have not been able to find one. Please. If you find or write something like that, toss it my way. I beg.
> 
> (Also peace out if you're that person on tumblr. I tried finding you to link this, but I can only pray that it reaches you somehow.)

“Ni kar’tayl gai sa’ad.”

_The metal pulls away from Din’s forehead. He doesn’t understand the words, the thrum of the vowels as they blend or the care with which the man says them. But he does understand one thing. Din’s fingers tense around the man’s neck, nails clicking against the edge of armor as he strengthens the embrace. It’s been hours, but Din still hasn’t let go. The man hasn’t made him._

_“We were late,” one of the warriors says—to no one in particular. They’re atop one of the abandoned buildings in town, a few soldiers surveying the dusty horizon for spacecraft. The smell of burned circuits and blaster fire tints the air, tacky enough that Din can taste it when he swipes his tongue over his teeth._

_The man holding him hums and rearranges the scarf around Din’s head like he thinks he might be cold. He’s tried talking to him numerous times, asking small, insignificant things that Din’s brain still gets snagged on. They're always gentle._

_"What’s your name, little one?”_

_Din hears. Doesn’t answer. His saliva’s like paste in his mouth, gummy and metallic, and it’s distracting. He wants to spit it out. He wants…_

_He wants…._

_Sighing, the man thumbs at a dry patch on Din’s cheek (_ Blood _, he realizes, before he can stop himself.), then presses him closer to his chest. The armor digs into Din’s ribs, but he clings tighter anyway, steel blooming like frost at his fingertips._

_“I know it’s frightening,” the man says, voice as soft as an oath. “But don’t be afraid. You won’t be alone again. I swear it to you.”_

* * *

The comm’s been looping the same transmission for days. It’s all the same ticks and tacks, chisels to Din’s skull. The pauses between repeats are just long enough to snatch his attention back before replaying the same thing.

Din carves out another slice of jogan fruit, eating it straight off the knife from where he sits in the Lambda’s cockpit. He’s been holed up in this shuttle for nearly a week now. Still has another day or two to find his next target, then switch crafts before imperial forces get wise. It’s not exactly the life Din envisioned for himself: raiding ships the second they drop out of hyperspace, but Fett’s more than happy to take the heat if he also gets the credit. Din couldn’t care less. So long as it’s distracting the imps from finding the jedi and kid, Fett can get anything he wants.

Din drops the fruit core into a bucket. He knows it’s irrational, but he always saves the best of the ship’s rations for last—or the things he imagines the kid would’ve liked, anyway. The solitude has only grown worse over the months. He hasn’t been on his own, truly, since…well....

The transmission pauses, then loops again. Din cleans his knife off while it drones.

He wonders, not for the first time, what the kid’s doing right now. Probably sleeping or getting into trouble. Din surveys the state of his blade before sheathing it, looking out at the star-speckled Perlemian Route. Wherever the kid is, he hopes he’s happy.

The transmission pauses again. Din steels himself for another repeat, but the silence continues. Stretches.

He almost considers whether they caught on to him, but no. It hasn’t been a full week yet, and this ship was headed all the way to Rakata Prime.

That’s when a new message starts.

Instantly, Din scrambles to record it, transcribing as much as he can on a datapad. It’s a location. Coordinates. And a report that they’ve found…something. Are asking for a pick-up.

Things pan out as far as Din can tell.

The grid numbers translate to H-10. It would’ve been on the way back.

Anticipating a replay to check, Din watches the blink of the control panel. However, the transmission cuts back to the regular loop as if nothing happened at all, allowing Din to dig in to translate the rest of the message. The coordinates are for the south pole of Jedha. It’s the only stable one of Jedha’s left if Din remembers right. He punches the numbers into the ship, charting the hyperdrive jump he’s going to have to risk to make up the time.

The last part of the message is what has him most concerned. It was about a stone of some kind, maybe a code that only higher-ups would be familiar with.

Din slams a toggle forward and the view out the window blurs into streaked lines and white noise.

Whatever a “kyber crystal” actually is, he certainly figures it’s worth looking into.

* * *

_A group of children chase each other through the streets, laughs modulated by their helmets. Din watches them from where he’s huddled near the entrance of a building. They offered to let him join, postures casual and fun, but he couldn't find the words to say yes.  
_

_Din tugs his legs closer to his chest._

_It’s only been a month, but it’s obvious he’s not a part. The gazes of adults linger on him a moment too long, on the flush of his face and the whites of his eyes._

_(The Armorer regarded the both of them, surprised. “He hasn’t decided?”)_

_“He will when he’s ready.”)_

_Din rests his chin on a knee._

_He doesn't think he will_ _ever be ready. The armor, that veneer of coldness and apathy, makes his stomach churn. He always thought he'd be a carpenter like Papa. Maybe a trader. But a warrior? Din recalls a metallic arm, weapons aimed at him, and shudders._

_But maybe...maybe he can stay here, just as himself. He hopes so._

_In any case, there's not much pressure to decide at the moment: A chunk of the clan’s been gone for days, off beating back imperial reinforcements. Most are optimistic, but it’s not hard to see the dented armor and weighed-down gait the adults carry when they think children aren’t watching. Buir bears it better than most._

_(“That’s not your name?” Din asked one night, keeping close to the man’s side as they walked. Buir was the only person who didn't look at him askance, who saw Din as an equal despite their backgrounds.  
_

_“It is—in a way,” the man considered, dipping his head at someone on watch up above. “But only between us. It’s special.”_

_“But what_ is _your name, then?”_

_The man paused like he was actually going to answer before finally stating, “Buir.”_

_Din scrunched his nose, and the man barked out a laugh loud enough to send sandrats skittering.)_

_Din hasn’t spoken to anyone since the group left. He simply sits and shrinks under the gazes thrown his way, twisting his shirt sleeve in his fist until the fabric tears._

_Gradually, the voices around him change, the tone of the children’s play cresting a pitch that makes Din peer out into the street. He can hear it now too: the clatter of footsteps and armor. Guns are being set down in exchange for embraces, wounded guided into buildings while others clutch helmets that aren’t attached to anyone anymore._

_Din scans them all, cursing how many people don blue. Some of the helmets look familiar but only the ones that are empty. Din finds he can’t remember the right designs, the exact placement of the shriek-hawk emblem and stripes or which leg it was that Buir put most of his weight on. What did he look like? Is Din already forgetting?_

_“Ad’ika.”_

_Din spins around, and Buir’s there, swathed in the tired backdrop of the town. The man’s armor is scratched, his right vambrace dangling off in chunks like thread, but he’s alive. He’s…_

_Din takes a step forward. Takes one back._

_He doesn’t. Shouldn’t._

_But Buir pulls his hand from his side then, a hesitant invitation that Din takes, throwing his arms around the man’s waist and burying his face in his midsection. A palm cups the back of his head and cards through the hair there. "I'm all right," he soothes. "We're all right."  
_

_Din recognizes the haggardness in his voice—the white lie, but he doesn't care. So long as he can hear it again at all._

_He sniffles while Buir stays quiet._ _It doesn't take long for the man to find_ _the tear in his sleeve, an unspoken ritual of theirs._

_“Oh, ad’ika," Buir sighs fondly, continuing to brush the hair from Din's face as the boy hugs him tighter. "What am I to do with you?”_

* * *

Within five seconds of landing, Din's already decided he hates it here. Jedha’s nickname is the Cold Moon—he knew that much going in—but of all the places he’s traveled, it’s no contest that this is the most miserable. The moment he steps off the landing ramp, his beskar’s frosted over and the leather of his boots crunches like rocks.

Eager to get to the bottom of the imperial interest here, Din heads into the nearest town to learn what he can. Denizens are quick to tell him there’s no point in heading to the pole.

“No one goes there,” a Vobati says, shuffling about a store. “Not since the Holy City was destroyed. People tried a few years back, but….” The merchant hesitates, like she knows she’s going to sound conspiratorial. “They came back… _different_. Said they saw things.”

Din cocks his head. “What kind?”

“The kind people shouldn’t.”

Din spends a good deal trying to learn more, sniffing around for someone with firsthand experience, but everyone sticks to the same story. Normally, he’d at least respect the superstition enough not to test it. That’s not in the cards for today, however.

The Lambda sets down just after sunset. Din would say to wait for sunrise, but it’d be another fifty days before he’d have more than two hours of daylight here. Din makes do with the backscatter from the snow and trudges on. The wind’s not as bad as it could be, white flecks flickering in a lazy swarm, but it’s benign in appearance only. Din’s certain he’d freeze if he stopped moving.

An hour passes and the snow curtain parts around the silhouette of a freighter, greyed out and vague against a rock face. Imperial. A heat scan indicates there’s no one on the transport—not alive, at least. The ice coating the actuators concurs.

Din turns his attention to the rock face, canvasing it for something of import. It canopies the sky nearly up to its center. No way the imps went over it. 

It doesn’t take long for Din to notice the smallest of cracks on the stone’s surface, barely enough for a person to squeeze through. He kicks the side of it tentatively, but the ice doesn’t slough off or crackle; it’s stable.

He sighs, taking in the entrance once more before glancing back to the empty freighter. Either they don’t know he’s here or he’s in for an ambush.

Din retrieves his blaster from his hip, shrugging his jet-pack onto one shoulder.

Only one way to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

_“Buir?”_

_The man inclines his head from where he’s polishing the barrel of his blaster. He hasn’t used it for the past week, his right arm done up in a sling, but he’s adamant about cleaning it despite the difficulty._

_“Weapons are a part of who we are,” he’s told him, explaining it like it’s protocol instead of the penance that it is. Buir’s in the lower ranks of the garrison, the first to go in and the last to come out, but Din’s greeted him marching home with comrades strung over his shoulders on more than one occasion. Most don’t make it through the night._

_When Din doesn’t continue, the man finally turns. “You should be sleeping,” he says, words downy._

_Din readjusts his head on his pillow. “Sorry.”_

_“It’s all right. I suppose I’m not helping much with all my fussing.” Buir lays his blaster on the table with an exhale. He does that more now, always in the places where he used to laugh. “What’s on your mind?”_

_“…It’s nothing.”_

_Buir reclines in his chair as if to imply, “That’s the answer you’re going with?” He’s probably sporting a raised eyebrow, maybe a twist to his lips like Mama used to whenever Din came home with broken sandals. But then again, that’s all imagination._

_“What do you look like?”_

_Buir tenses._

_“I know you can’t…_ show _me, but….” Din sinks deeper into his bed like the blankets can hide him. “Never mind.”_

_When the chair squeaks, Din winces his eyes closed, unable to block out the footsteps pausing at his side or armor plates grating into a kneel. The mattress shifts when elbows rest on it._

_“…I have hair—like yours.”_

_Din flinches. Stares._

_“Two eyes, like yours,” the man continues, tone faraway. “Two ears and a mouth. A nose.” He taps the tip of Din’s nose when he says it. “We’re not much different.”_

_Din waits. He can distinguish those features behind the man’s visor when the light hits it right, nebulous shadows and shapes. If anything, it only serves to make Din search for them more, and now that he’s been allowed a peek, just the slightest give, all his questions tumble out. “What colors?” Din breathes. “Your eyes and your hair and—"_

_“Ad’ika…”_

_“—When you laugh, what does it look like? Right now, what face are you making?”_

_“Ad’ika.”_

_Din stops, swallows._

_He already knows Buir can’t share anything more than he already has; if time has shown him anything, it’s that the Way is a bridge they’re both on different sides of yet neither are willing to cross._

_“I can’t remember them,” Din admits finally, ripping another patch in his sleeve without realizing. “I don’t…I_ know _what it was like to be with them, but how they looked… Their faces…. I just remember the droid.”_

_The candlelight of their room flickers._

_“I don’t want to forget you too.”_

_After a moment, Buir hangs his head. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” he murmurs. “For your sake.” Gingerly, he takes one of Din’s hands in his. The way he cradles it feels like understanding, like absolution. “I’m the same as anyone else: I frown when I’m sad and smile when I laugh.” He links their fingers together, watching the places they connect._

_“But no matter what happens, ad’ika, just remember that when I smile, it looks like you.”_

* * *

Din’s reflection multiplies around him, the helmet’s flashlight sliding from one frame of ice to the next. The beam barely does anything against the fog, frost saturated and hanging like a shroud. The air’s harder to breathe here, too, stale in his lungs, but Din presses on, practically dragging himself through sideways one arm length at a time. If the imps want whatever’s in here, Din’s decided against letting them have it.

It’s for the kid.

He’s doing it for the kid.

Step by step, the ice is pared away until he can walk normally again, the warped reflections fading back into stone walls and a hall that leans closer to being man-made. It’s too neat, the lines orderly and perfect. Writing is scratched into them in a language Din can’t read nor recognize. He brushes the crusted snow from one of the symbols, ribcage shaking from the cold while he examines the craftwork. That, and something else.

Din can’t put his finger on it exactly, but the atmosphere feels denser here, like the particles are being pulled taut and he’s stuck in the crossfire. It could be the magnetic field. That’d be the most reasonable guess considering the northern pole’s cracked free from the core, but the more human the cave starts to become, the less he thinks it’s a natural disruption.

Squinting, Din turns a corner, and there’s a flash of shadow.

His blaster flicks up. The person— _people_ , the closer he gets—don’t move, remaining slumped against the floor and walls while Din steps closer.

Stormtroopers. From the freighter.

Cautiously, Din rolls one of them over with his foot. The chestplate's been shot clean through the center. Close-range judging by the surrounding burn marks but not powerful enough to pierce the other side. Industrial like…imperial blasters.

At that, Din looks up to the rest of them. Weapons are limp in their hands as if they’d seen the thing that got them, and yet, the footsteps on the floor stop where they do, already frozen over.

Din exhales slowly.

They shot each other.

_(“Said they saw things…the kind people shouldn’t.”)_

Din can feel it too, just a bit. Something groping for the edges of his consciousness, a small hand slotting into his. ( _You could stay._ ) He tries to shake it off, to force himself forward against the cold, but even when he’s left the scene behind, a part of him refuses to let it go.

* * *

_A match catches against a lamp wick, exhuming a sickly glow._

_Were Din younger—before his parents were killed, perhaps—he would suspect that this was a dream. “Wake up, darling,” Mama would sing-song, lips ghosting the back of his hand. “I’m here. The monsters can’t get you.”_

_Din knows better now._

_The dirt floor clings to his soles while he surveys what the flame’s revealed, and the Armorer shakes out the match with indifference. “It belongs to you,” she says._

_“…It,” Din repeats. The aspiration clicks on his teeth._

_The Armorer simply hangs the lamp from the ceiling, holding it like a boat in her hands. “This is the Way.”_

_A grim cortege, Din sinks to the floor, knees bony and sharp against the ground. He registers, somewhere, that he should have questions (Who did it?) (Where was it?) (Did it hurt for long?), but the marks on the armor tell the story._

_The hit came from behind. Din can’t see the backside of the cuirass, it resting downward, but the spatters of blood on the cot shimmer. It’s dripped through the fabric and bandages and has congealed on the floor._

_“It,” Din says again. The Armorer turns to him, bemused._

_She sees the Beskar._

_Din sees the corpse._

_“Yes,” she affirms cautiously. “As his child, it is your inheritance.”_

_“I’m not…”_

_The sentence withers._

_Din’s known. He thinks he always has, in some sense, understood what “Buir” meant: an outstretched hand cutting through the dark, the comfort of seeing others run to their family and knowing there’s someone waiting for him also._

_Din reaches out until his fingers encircle ones that don’t respond in turn. He swallows hard. “Can I…say goodbye?”_

_There’s a pause, an observation—like Din’s a curiosity—before the door creaks closed and he’s alone._

_Din struggles in an inhale, the first sign of distress he’s given off since the Armorer appeared. The light is washing over the leather glove in his hold, over the chinks in the armor and cracked paint. His knees ache._

_“Papa?” Din tries. The title tastes wrong as soon as he says it. Papa is someone else, a different man lost to the ether, but nothing else seems to fit. He needs a way to define this relationship if nothing more than to give name to the grief tearing into his chest._

_“Buir,” he tries again. It feels like the man is sleeping, like he just needs to wake up. Little by little, Din dares to move his gaze upward, over the bloodied gauze and ammo belt, and latches onto the helmet. The lamplight is eroding the T-visor tint enough that he can nearly see through it._

_Din looks away. Slowly looks back._

_The shadows flicker and swim as if the man’s still alive underneath, the armor a sarcophagus. Shriek-hawk crest, iron heart, even the hue of blue—Din knows he’ll forget them all. It’s been half a year, and it’s the same story with his parents._

_Din leans forward, his free hand coming up to grace the rim of the helmet. The metal’s cold, lighter than he imagined it would be, and his grip stays. Hesitates._

_The Way is something Buir dedicated his soul to, the only concession he could never make. Din should respect that._

_But it haunts him: that he never saw Mama or Papa again. The door drifted down, sealing out their silhouettes, and that was all. Their bodies—the damage. In memory, they’re nothing more than a grey sky and the groan of a hinge._

_For Buir, Din doesn’t even have that much._

_Fingers gain purchase, the helmet shedding. He needs to know. To see._

_And Din’s stomach drops._

_Buir was right: two eyes, two ears, a mouth, and a nose. Only Din doesn’t… He doesn’t recognize him. There are no memories of lopsided grins or crinkled skin, no furrowed brows or softened eyes—not on this face. This isn’t the man who pressed his helmet to Din’s forehead every night, who slid him parts of his own rations (“You’re still growing,” he chuckled.) or stitched together the ripped seams in Din’s clothes, humming some tune or another that was just slightly off-key._

_That’s what Din associates with Buir. But this person?_

_He’s a stranger._

_Din moves to touch his face, to will himself to link the two of them, but he can’t. There’s nothing there. There’s nothing…. All of it…._

_A cry shreds his throat, and Din crumples over the man’s chest, the helmet still in his hands. “Buir,” he calls, willing the husk of armor to shift and hold him like it used to. “Please! Please, don’t leave me! You promised. You promised you wouldn’t.”_

_Buir did, but Din’s never felt more alone than he does now, guilt sinking its teeth into him. All that’s left is the empty helmet. It observes him coolly (You betrayed him.), and when Din raises his eyes to meet it, that remorse sharpens into horror._

_His fingers shake, dropping the helmet to the floor as he dashes out of the room. Locking it behind him doesn’t make the guilt fade. (You shouldn’t have looked. You shouldn’t have looked.) Din presses back against the door face, attention pinned to the wall opposite him while tears leak.  
_

_Undisturbed, the Armorer cocks her head at him. It’s little question that she’s been here before: the harbinger of both beginning and end, a scavenger bird waiting for the starving man to fall and move no more._

_Din's pulse drums in his ears like a war song. A piece of him wants to fight her off, to beat back the inevitable, but his emotions are ebbing into something more exhaustive. Empathy to the point of shock, of apathy._

_“Did you say your goodbye?” she asks.  
_

_Din’s skull thunks against the door as he watches the ceiling lamp sway._

_Two days later, he swears the Creed._

* * *

It’s learning him, somehow. This place.

The longer Din walks, the more he’s sure of it. There are things in the fog, eyes on him that he tries to catch but can never find. It’s worse here. The cavern’s opened up into a large chamber, what must be daylight draining in through a crevice in the ceiling, and stalagmites rise up to meet it. One of their points glistens, and the silence whispers in anticipation.

Din glances both ways, waiting for something bad to happen while he inches closer. He can see it more clearly now: At the tip of the stalagmite sits a colorless stone, the shine of it so intense that it whines.

One hand on his blaster, Din plucks it off, and the keening stops.

The snow floor shifts. Nothing else.

“Guessing you’re the kyber crystal,” he drones, inspecting it in the light. He has no clue what the Empire would want with it but pockets it anyway, rubbing his hands together to try to alleviate the numbness. It’s only when he turns around that he realizes the change.

Din blinks at the wall where the exit used to be.

The fog starts to tighten too, gathering in places that resemble people. Din whirls around and finds only more of them. They speak beneath their breaths, content to loom while more of them gather. There are ten—no, twenty. More than he could take.

“Who are you?” he asks, aiming for diplomacy.

The voices rise at that, and the fog rattles like shells, hissing and coiling. “ _Don’t leave me_ ,” they beg wispily, a plea he recognizes. “ _You promised. You promised_.”

Din stumbles back a step. The fog has expanded over him, frost snaking through his clothes and into his bones. It’s tranquil, still, but Din’s certain the specters have sunk into his mind along with it. They’re latching onto recollections, rerunning them until he can barely hear himself think. His heart’s skipping odd beats in his chest, and that’s enough for him to know that he has to get out of here, but he can’t make out directions. Can scarcely remember why he’s here to begin with. A foothold is what he needs. Something. Anything.

And that's when a sound echoes.

“Patu!”

Din’s head snaps up, processes. He’d know that cry anywhere, but it doesn't make sense.

“Grogu?” he calls, mind jarring free for just a moment.

The cry echoes again, sure as day. It must be coming from the ceiling—a way out, he recalls. Fingers too shaky from the chill, Din slams his gauntlet with his fist, his jet-pack sputtering. The fog breaks into daylight, and he manages to breach the crevice in the ceiling before the jet-pack engine dies altogether and sends him toppling to the ice.

Din’s helmet kicks back on impact, vision wavering around sunshine on snow while his lungs have been cleared of all oxygen. He coughs so harshly on it that he almost gags.

The cries heighten. Grogu’s out here—somewhere. He doesn't understand the how of it, but it feels grounded. Real.

“I’m OK,” Din pants, hoping the kid hears. He struggles to push himself back to a stand. Fumbles. His legs aren’t working right, and even rubbing at his thighs doesn’t alleviate the numbness. He realizes then that his clothes have ripped at the knee, drops of blood splattering to the snow. What he doesn't realize is the new presence behind him.

“Oh, ad’ika.”

Din stiffens. Doesn't dare to turn.

“What am I to do with you?”


	3. Chapter 3

Din keeps his eyes locked forward, exhales clouding the visor in series.

 _Grogu_ , he reminds himself. He has to—He has to find the kid. The cries are still there, whimpering and distressed, and it rings a bell of clarity. Alarm.

“Kid?” Din yells, throat raw as he staggers to his feet. “Where are you?”

“Ad’ika.”

The cries mute.

“There’s no one here.”

Din listens to the wind dragging snow. There really is nothing, not that he can tell.

Blaster drawn, Din whips around, intent on asking where the sounds have gone. He’s almost thrown off balance to see the man really here. His armor’s untainted, weight leaned on his right leg same as it always was. “You’re dead,” Din breathes.

“You’re not firing.”

Flinching, Din resets his trigger finger, resolute. It’d be so easy to prove he’s right, to take the shot, but…it’s been so long.

Din means to simply lower his arm. Before he knows it, though, the blaster’s slipped to the ground, a dull imprint in the snow. Din tries to focus on it, but his sight’s reeling. A warmth is writhing in his gut too, like his flesh is boiling off his skeleton despite the ice in the air.

Absentmindedly, Din shakes his wrist, trying to jar the frost from his flamethrower. It spews out one line, then stills.

“You’ve grown up.”

The man’s observing him, nostalgic, as his T-visor lowers over Din’s armor and back up. Seeing him is like childhood. Like security.

Din stumbles a step, falling to a knee again—the one that ripped, and his lungs pitch from the effort of an inhale. He shouldn’t be as warm as he is.

“I… I have to….”

The man cants his head to the side. Din can’t remember what he wanted to say. His brain is fizzling, and it’s so tempting to sleep, to let gravity pull him down and abandon himself. Decades of loss and grief are resurfacing. He’s missed him so much. Din could rest in that truth. For only a second, at least.

“The sun hasn’t set.”

Din’s eyelids flutter back open. Time has passed, he realizes. He can’t tell how much, but at some point, his shoulder’s hit the snow, world spun horizontally with the man sitting in view beside him, angle low. Din’s long since stopped shivering.

“It’s too early to sleep,” the man continues softly. “Why don’t we talk, like we used to?”

“…talk?”

The man nods. “You have a boy now. What’s he like?”

It takes a while for the words to click together into something Din can digest. Longer for him to form his own. “Trouble,” he mumbles.

At that, the man throws his head back and laughs, deep from his stomach. “Think that means you’re doing something right,” he says once the humor’s died down. He leans his weight on his palms then, and the snow doesn’t crunch.

His posture's so human, gentle and soft around the edges.

When Din was young, he always thought the man was larger than life. Someone with all the answers, all the experience, back when age was a dichotomous thing divided into child and adult. Now Din sees the in-between, the awkwardness of the man’s armor, slightly too wide around his shoulders like he’s only just grown into the shape of his body, and his voice is youthful and clear. He couldn’t have been past his twenties.

Din questions if this version of him knows what happened—after he died. Questions if it even matters in the grand scheme of things.

Din’s eyelids are growing heavy, and the man’s voice comes from somewhere past dreaming. “I’m glad that you found your place. More than anything I wished that for you.” His helmet’s remained tipped back, wistful as the sky fades to black, and even after all this time, Din still wonders what expression he’s wearing.

“You were all that mattered,” he says, “in the end.”

* * *

“…nothing here...”

Footsteps. They grow in volume, in pace.

“…Wait…Wait…think I see…!”

A pressure is tugging at his chest now. Distant.

“Mando?”

Hands shake him. Once. Twice.

Somewhere, a baby cries.

* * *

Something’s been secured over his face. Up around the bridge of his nose and under his chin. Din squints with his eyes closed, fingers twitching. There’s an even weight pressing down on him, too, limbs floaty while a machine thrums behind the top of his head, metalwork chinking. His tongue is dry and sticks to the roof of his mouth when he inhales. Din’s aiming to get enough air to bring his mind around, but the breath comes in scorching hot, and he chokes on it, hand flying up to rip off whatever’s feeding it to him. Someone grabs him before he can. “Wouldn’t advise that, my friend.”

The timbre’s low and rich, like an old hound.

“Karga?” Din wheezes, vision listing around the familiar face.

“The very same,” the man greets, easing Din back down and patting his shoulder through a pile of what he now knows to be blankets. It takes the edge off his nerves, but Din has to remind himself not to fight whatever temperature of oxygen is being shunted through him.

“Wasn’t sure you were going to make it there for a while,” Greef says. “Had to remind myself you’re a particularly stubborn type of fool.”

Brain too swampy to reply, Din’s head drifts over on the pillow. He’s trying to figure out where exactly they are. He’s in a compartment of some kind that’s cut into a wall, barely big enough to fit him. It seems expressly medical with low-set lights and plastic white coating. He can’t see much behind where Greef sits. Just loose wires and metal.

“Ah,” the man realizes. “My ship.”

“Didn’t know…you had one.”

Greef scoffs in mock offense, starting into Nevarro’s recent trade numbers and economic influence before realizing Din’s eyes have glassed over in exhaustion. He has the poise to look sheepish. “Well, enough of that, anyway.” Greef straightens his spine out like he’s been sitting for hours, then turns his attention behind himself. “I hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of…um….” He throws an arm out to a pile of armor and clothing on the other side of the hull. It wavers into focus enough to tell Din it’s his own. “Marshall Dune had informed me that it wasn’t an issue anymore, but….”

The empty helmet gleams.

“S’fine,” Din rasps out. “How’d you…find me?”

“Well, that’s the other thing.” Greef scratches at his beard, and Din hopes he hurries. His muscles are heavy with sleep, threatening to drag him back down before long.

As it happens, the situation explains itself with the shudder of droid wheels.

“I told you to stay in the cockpit,” Greef hisses, swatting a hand in its direction. The R2 unit just trills and tries to get itself unstuck from a soldered bump in the floor.

It’s blue and white and easily recognizable. “…he here?” Din coughs out, struggling to push himself up only for Greef to wrestle him back down. It’s embarrassing how small of a fight he puts up.

“I didn’t want you to get yourself in a tizzy,” the man explains, as if “tizzy” has ever been a word that could apply to Din. “You nearly died yesterday, so keep still.”

“Is he here?” Din repeats, craning his neck to see where the droid’s scampered off to.

Greef looks at the fact Din’s shivering again and sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, the kid’s here.” He fixes the blankets with a frown. “He and the droid just showed up the other day in a starfighter, completely out of the blue.”

"X-wing…?”

Greef hums in agreement. “Kept pointing to a spot on a holomap. The boy was so panicked that I figured he was good for it. Still, finding you was the last thing I expected.”

Din’s attention remains drifting through the hull, scanning for big ears or big eyes.

“Mando.”

His gaze flits back. Cardinally, Din knows Greef to be a high-flown, jovial kind of man, but at this moment, his jaw is set and the turn of his mouth serious. “When I said we almost lost you, I meant it.”

Din measures the statement. “…Thank you,” he manages.

Greef nods again. He’s apparently satisfied that Din won’t try anything as he claps the top of his thighs, indicating he’s standing. “The kid’s sleeping last I checked. I’ll fetch him.”

A door out of sight hisses open, then closed. There’s only the whir of the ship’s engine to keep Din company now. He shuffles his legs against the weight of the blankets, measuring the damage. A bandage rolled around his knee emits a scritching sound against the fabric, but otherwise, he seems to be in fair shape—on the outside, at least. His head throbs in waves, throat cut open any time he swallows. The hot air is agitating but unavoidable. Finding a comfortable position, Din decides to rest his eyes.

Next thing he knows, he’s coming to when a small body stumbles over the covers and hugs his face.

“Grogu?” Din asks drowsily. The boy pulls back enough to put himself into view, grinning all the while, then chirps and returns to mashing his nose against the mask still on Din’s face.

“Easy with him,” Greef warns, out past the chunk of the world that’s all happy toddler. “Don’t get him too excited or he won’t sleep.”

Din smiles lightly, unable to help himself; the contact feels good. “I won’t.”

“I was talking to the little one.” Greef’s boots clatter on the floor, loud, like he’s dropped down from an upper level. “Seeing as you're awake, you wouldn’t happen to know what this is, would you?”

Grogu teeters to the side, still babbling, and it allows Din to see the kyber crystal in Greef’s hand. Where it used to be clear, it’s now gleaming a vibrant blue. “He was rummaging through your things and found it. It’s not poison, is it?”

Din’s eyes thin. “Don’t think so… Imps wanted it.”

Greef bounces the crystal once in his hand as if the heft will reveal something before shuffling into a separate room. “I’ll inform the Marshall, then. Perhaps she’ll know who to contact.”

Din doesn’t disagree, maneuvering his hand free from the blankets to scratch at the base of the kid’s ear. Grogu leans into it and purrs.

“You stole the nice jedi’s ship,” Din chastises once the room is quiet. Ignoring him, Grogu pushes further into his fingernails, directing them to where it feels best. “Who do you get your troublesome streak from, hmm?”

Grogu grunts as if to say he has no clue, and Din rotates his head away to cough. He feels warm enough, heart flaming, and gently tugs the mask free only to gasp around the sharpness of the cold.

“I’m OK,” Din comforts when Grogu cheeps out his concern. It reminds him of something he experienced the other day. He turns back. “You were there yesterday, weren’t you? In a way?"

Wise eyes admire him, and it’s an answer and then some.

Instances like these make Din feel he’ll never truly understand him. He can put words to the sounds the boy makes, can interpret the twirl of his ears and the wrinkle of his brow, but the push and pull and kineses of whatever it is that jedi can do—it’s beyond comprehension.

Claws reach for Din’s hand again. “Don’t stop,” they say, so Din picks up working the spot behind his ears.

Mindlessly, he thinks back to Buir and considers if he didn’t feel the same: woefully underprepared. Considers if the man experienced the same thrum of joy each time he saw him, if he wanted to grow old just to see him grow up, or if, had things been different, he would’ve removed his helmet the second Din asked. Having lived through it himself, Din’s doubts about it are fading.

Grogu chatters and trundles his feet around in the blankets. Din’s able to yank them high enough for the boy to scramble in beside him, a bright stroke of heat at his shoulder. The expression is still foreign, but when Grogu blinks up at him, Din allows himself to smile a little wider than before.

He hopes he remembers what it looks like.

That this is what Grogu thinks of long after he’s gone.

Din’s far from perfect, but still, he brings their foreheads together, a happy coo unfurling at the touch, and he does his best to recall the words.

_“Ni kar’tayl gai sa’ad.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luke waking up to realize Grogu and R2 stole his ride  
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/191645122@N04/50833223043/in/dateposted-public/)  
> In other news, let me know if you'd be interested in more Deathwatch Dad. I might have an idea of something I could do, but until then, thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Parallel (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28829298) by [Readaholics_Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readaholics_Anonymous/pseuds/Readaholics_Anonymous)




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